A Game of Soldiers
by julien-schu
Summary: In which Arthur tries to keep some kind of order with Gilbert, Ludwig, Antonio and Feliciano in his squad; no mean feat, especially in a training exercise gone wrong. Military AU; ongoing. No pairings really unless you squint, even then with a microscope.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **A de-anon from the LiveJournal kink meme.

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**A Game of Soldiers: Chapter 1**

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He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to roll his eyes or let out a long, frustrated sigh. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried his best to tune out the current conversation near him.

"Can you believe this shit?"

No, forget conversation. It was just plain whingeing.

"Who the fuck thought this was a good idea?"

Likely someone really, really important – or rather, several someones – with insignia featuring shiny crossed swords and batons, pips, stars or crowns who had more than just several whiffs of something really, really strong.

Theoretically, perhaps it was a sound idea. Think of it as an extension of the Eurocorps, said those high-ranking bastards as they sipped or chugged down their alcohol. Oh, what about NATO? Never mind, trying to fight wars together under NATO was a nightmare in logistics, data sharing and combat identification anyway. Might as well make it all EU, thinking that at least friendly fire would be drastically reduced. European troops, unlike that certain lot on the other side of the ocean, they reasoned, would not open fire thinking that just because the lads in combat gear right across the field waving at them did not speak any English, they were automatically the enemy.

Oh wait, and instead of just pooling a few of them lads in combat gear like the Eurocorps, why not try out an interesting experiment: create an all-new, all-European force altogether. Select troops from various European countries, toss them into a brigade and turn them into the best fighting force Europe had to offer – oh, and what a lovely piece of news that would make in the news pages, improving military cooperation, multilateral and bilateral ties and all those fancy bits.

Sound idea in theory, indeed.

In reality, starting the process was not a rosy picture as it was made out to the press in those official announcements and speeches. There was a lot of bitching and whingeing and the entire operation, oddly enough, had the feel of being bound together with twine and a few rolls of strong packing tape.

Standard weapons and equipment for everyone? Why of course, provided they're from my country. No, they ought to be from mine, your equipment is completely rubbish. How dare you! And so on. Then it was the issue of a standard language, ranks and other concerns on forming the new Brigade – even rations! – and whatever ridiculous crap anyone could think of in order to have more meetings just so they can get more of that free alcohol served afterward.

Surprisingly enough, the entire affair was sorted out far sooner than anyone expected – probably thanks to someone with a really loud voice and a monstrous temper – and somehow, here they were, a bunch of squaddies stuck in the middle of Europe trying their best not to kill each other.

"And what the hell kind of name is CBAB anyway?"

CBAB, or Combined Battle Advance Brigade. Not that they were actually at full brigade strength; it was still early days yet with the experimental force, but he supposed deciding on a brigade-sized force was meant to impress the public. A move not likely to succeed, not with that stupid acronym – and the Brigade's full name was not much better either, for it did not make much sense to him. He was not too sure what or where they were meant to advance to, for starters. Or perhaps the word 'advance' was meant to be ambitious or even hopeful; if things went well, there would be more people interested in joining the Brigade.

Right.

The whingeing went on.

"CBAB... Fuck! That acronym is fucking awful! It sounds like... like kebab! And I _fucking_ hate kebabs!"

True, but he has heard that complaint more than enough for today. There was only so much he could take, especially after hearing that same line everyday for the past three months.

He silently thanked the fact that the powers that be decided on a rank system that he was familiar with and that English was also the command and working language of CBAB, with all personnel assigned to the Brigade required to be able to speak and understand it. He was _not _going to choke on his own tongue trying to pronounce _Stabsgefreiter _everytime he needed to yell at his corporal.

"Beilschmidt," he growled, "shut it or I swear to god I'll fucking shoot you myself."

Corporal Gilbert Beilschmidt scowled.

When he first met the German when the initial batch of men for the new Brigade came in, he knew that he must not have been the first one to wonder: who was the fool in the _Bundeswehr_ that let Gilbert enlist in the first place anyway?

The German was a loud-mouthed fuckwit, but there were plenty of those in any military force, so that was not what bothered him. Rather, it was Gilbert's appearance. Tall, pale as fucking ghost, hair so platinum blond that people often thought the man was a geezer when they saw him from the back, not to mention those freakish red-purple eyes; a combination that had practically startled anyone at first glance. Still, the man was more than a decent squaddie, but he had to be, in order to be in the Brigade. The _Heer_'s selection process had made certain of that.

"Shit, Sarge," the German grumbled, "but it's fucking true! How are people are supposed to take us seriously? Kebab. _Kebabs!"_

To hell with it, the sergeant decided. He rolled his eyes and then let out a sigh. "I _know_ it sounds like kebab. We _all _know it sounds like kebab. And we all know that you hate kebabs, because you've fucking mentioned that fact a thousand times, so just shut it already!"

"It wasn't a thousand–"

"One thousand and ninety four, to be exact."

Gilbert blinked. "Whoa, West. You kept count? That is so cool!" he exclaimed, then punched the poor bastard sitting next to him on the arm.

The poor bastard was Gilbert's younger brother, Ludwig. Tall, blond, blue-eyed and built like a brick shithouse, Ludwig looked like a model for Third Reich propaganda posters.

Oh wait, the sergeant silently chided himself, he was not supposed to think of things like that nowadays. Not out loud, anyway.

Where was he? Oh yes, the two brothers. It was hard to believe that the two were related, unless you really looked up close; only then would you notice that they had some similar facial features – provided Gilbert's strangely-coloured eyes and boorish demeanour did not scare you off first. And bless the patron saint of stereotypes, the sergeant thought, for while Ludwig may be an anal retentive, law-abiding bookworm of a German brick shithouse, at least he was not a fuckwit like his brother.

Gilbert also insisted on calling his brother 'West' for some reason; the man had once explained why in one of his many inebriated moments, but no one could make any head nor tail out of the man's long-winded and slurred explanation. What they could understand out of the mess was that Gilbert had applied to join the Brigade because Ludwig had done so, and he certainly needed to keep an eye on his 'adorable little brother, who was so cute back when he was a kid', something which he was also fond of mentioning.

The sergeant, who once was assaulted with a display of Ludwig's childhood pictures and a detailed commentary during yet another one of Gilbert's drunken stupors, could not help but agree to the description. Ludwig on the other hand, had endured the outrageous and humiliating display of affection with the resigned patience of a saint – one of those stone ones found in churches, for a living one would have at least attempted to commit fratricide.

He had often wondered if Ludwig had applied to the Brigade just to get away from Gilbert. If that were the case, he pitied the younger man.

"Ve... where are we going again?" asked the youngest member of his lot. Feliciano Vargas. The sergeant pondered if the young man had asked the question just to change the subject and thus prevent an argument from starting, or because he _really_ did not know their destination. Probably the latter. Feliciano was not really suited for the life of a squaddie, the sergeant opined; the young man was too gentle, too trusting, too jumpy. He was also most of the time, for lack of a more suitable phrase, a gutless pansy. Still, Feliciano – or Feli, as some of the others called him – was like the baby brother of the lot; he acted like the peacekeeper among the lads and did a much better job at it than the sergeant, whose idea of keeping peace was the old-fashioned method of a well-delivered sock to the jaw.

He was also a more than decent cook, much to the relief to the rest, who had previously suffered from the sergeant's culinary abominations, a yet-to-be-documented phenomenon; anyone would think it was impossible to make a complete mess of boil-in-the-bag rations, but make a mess the sergeant did. With the threat of being hung, drawn and quartered by his own men if he as much as thought of taking over cooking duties, the sergeant had to satisfy himself with setting the kettle to boil for a brew.

"A training exercise in the middle of nowhere!" announced the final member of the squad. Brown-haired and green-eyed, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was cheerful to a fault, but thankfully he was a somewhat reliable man. The Spaniard seemed a bit dense though, but the sergeant thought that was more due to the confusion of language. At least, he hoped so.

"Fool's errand, more like it," Gilbert complained. Apparently Gilbert and Antonio were childhood friends and both men were more than pleased to see each other again in the Brigade.

"It's supposed to make good headlines in the newspapers, I think," Antonio commented.

Gilbert cackled. "Headlines? Yeah, it should be something like, 'The Kebabmen Attack–"

The sergeant shot him a warning glare.

"Never said a word," Gilbert said with obviously faked innocence, then smiled at the sergeant.

He snorted. "Yes Gilbert, we know it's a stupid acronym for a stupid name." There was a considerable pause before he added, "I like my name for the Brigade much better though."

"Oh? What's that, Sarge?"

"CBAB. Can't Be Arsed Brigade."

Gilbert howled in laughter, and so did the rest of the lads..

Sergeant Arthur Kirkland smiled, then laughed along with them.

* * *

**Notes:**

Eurocorps – a multi-national army corps based in Strasbourg. Basically I just 'borrowed' this concept and ran away with it.

_Bundeswehr – _Federal Defence Force; the armed forces of Germany

_Heer –_ the German army


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: **A de-anon from the LiveJournal kink meme.

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**A Game of Soldiers: Chapter 2**

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Gilbert yawned. _Yawned, _the bastard. "Sarge? How much longer before we get off this chopper?" he asked.

Arthur checked his watch. It would be quite a while before they reached the landing zone. "About forty-five minutes. Why?"

The corporal smirked. Arthur knew that smirk, and he was not the only one.

"Oh god," Ludwig muttered.

"I didn't say anything yet!"

"You're going to start telling another one of your ridiculous stories–"

"Shut up, West! They are _not _ridiculous, they're cool!"

"I'd like to hear it!" Feliciano said brightly.

Gilbert beamed. "See? Feli there thinks so!"

Ludwig looked pleadingly at Arthur, who merely shrugged. "Oh, why the hell not. We have time to kill," said the sergeant.

The corporal cackled. "Okay, Feli! Since you're the newest guy here, I'm going to tell you how Sarge and I met!"

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Hang on," he said.

Feliciano looked puzzled. "But you've told me that one–"

Gilbert ignored them both.

-x-x-

_Stabsgefreiter_ Gilbert Beilschmidt eyed his new surroundings with a degree of enthusiasm. Here he was, one of the few men from the _Heer_ to join the CBAB – what the fuck is with that acronym? – and as happy as he was for being selected, the fact that his younger brother was also selected to join the Brigade made him proud to the point of bursting. And while joining the Brigade did not earn him nor his brother a promotion, it did make a big difference in their pay bands, which more than made up for the stupid name.

"Come on, West!" he said to his brother, "let's go around and take a proper look at this whole place!"

"Now? But I want to unpack and sort my things–"

"There's plenty of time for that later! Let's check this place out!"

Ludwig hesitated for a moment, but decided to go with his elder brother's wishes. Gilbert was right; they had plenty of time. A mix-up in communications had resulted in the German contingent arriving two days earlier than scheduled at the CBAB camp, causing a minor stir and guaranteeing a good dose of bollocking for the bastard responsible for the cock-up. Although quite a deal had yet to be sorted out – uniforms, squad assignment and so on – thankfully at least their living arrangements had been settled. After a quick briefing by a few very harassed-looking officers and NCOs, the Germans were all shoved into the barracks and politely told to mind their own business and find useful things to do, because there was already a massive amount of fuck-all around the camp to deal with and no one needed any more.

Quite a number of their countrymen had the same idea as Gilbert; already more than a few had set off to have a look around after they were done storing their gear and had changed their clothes. Most of them were headed to the nearest town, the rest to the recreation complex. "How did you know that's the rec building?" Gilbert wondered when Ludwig pointed this out.

"They gave us a map at the briefing. Where did you put yours?"

Gilbert shrugged. "So that's what that piece of paper was. I stuffed it somewhere. Anyway, who cares about the map? I've got you."

"Let's go see the recreation facilities," Ludwig suggested, "I want to find out if the library has a good collection."

"You need to get that perfectly groomed head of yours out of those boring books, West! Screw the library, I want to check out if they've got a decent TV. One of those big flat-screens would be great for watching porn."

"You know that pornography is not allowed in–"

"Says the guy who has at least twenty gigs' worth of BDSM in his laptop," Gilbert interrupted, ignoring his brother's sputtering, "now come on."

-x-x-

"Why Ludwig," Arthur said, grinning, "never thought you were a bondage fan."

Ludwig turned bright red. "That-that's just ridiculous!" he protested.

Gilbert waved one hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Yeah, yeah. I lied. He doesn't have twenty gigs of BDSM in his computer."

Arthur relaxed. "Oh good."

"He's got eighty," Gilbert said with a smirk, while his brother turned a very amusing shade of purple.

_"Fuck!"_

-x-x-

"Hey," Gilbert said in approval, "this isn't so bad!"

Ludwig agreed with his brother's assessment. The recreation complex was a far cry compared to the facilities they were used to back in their old camp; it had a decent library, several gaming rooms ("With video games!" Gilbert exclaimed in excitement), computer and Internet facilities, even a barbecue and grill area, and according to the map and handout, it also had lots of TV rooms. Twenty of them, to be precise.

Gilbert immediately rushed to see them.

However, most of the rooms were either locked or occupied to almost full capacity, so the two brothers were forced to walk almost all the way down the hall before Gilbert could satisfy his curiosity.

He was pleased that the room he entered had a big, flat-screen TV, but was not quite so approving at the lack of DVDs to watch; the shelf near the TV was almost bare except for a few titles.

"You probably have to go to the library and check them out first," Ludwig said, "or maybe the good ones are in the other rooms."

"I'm not talking about movies, West," Gilbert grumbled, "I'm talking about porn! What kind of place is this? Usually someone would hide a porn DVD somewhere..." He continued grumbling to himself as he searched the TV cabinet, then turned to have a second look at the shelf.

"Can we go now?" Ludwig said. He wanted to check out a few books from the library, so he would have something to do tonight after he was done unpacking.

"Might as well," Gilbert muttered and turned around to follow his brother out the door, but not before giving the shelf a hefty kick in frustration. "Did you bring your laptop? I'm gonna try and hook it up to the TV tonight – _aaack!"_

It was only then the two discovered that the shelf was not only devoid of good DVDs to watch, it was also rather precariously balanced.

-x-x-

"Ve, Sarge... that's not how it went in the first story the corporal told me."

"Oh?" That was the only syllable uttered, but it was more than enough for said corporal to choke out a nervous laugh, and then inch a bit further away from the squad's IC.

"Yeah! He said that he single-handedly rescued you from a dozen crazed militia–"

"Bloody cheek!"

-x-x-

Arthur had always wanted to try his hand at knitting. He had always been good with a needle and thread, having no problems at attempting an interlaced herringbone stitch or a closed Cretan stitch in his sleep, and thus figured that knitting would not pose a problem. It was just a different way of mucking about with yarn and oversized needles, he reasoned.

Still, the fact that he was new to the whole business required some peace and quiet, for he needed to fully concentrate on his first project – a scarf. While NCOs like Arthur had the privilege of being housed in separate quarters instead of in the barracks with the enlisted men, the French bastard he had the misfortune of having as a neighbour was such a bloody pest with his – his _Frenchness_ – that Arthur simply could not find the solitude he required.

He had found a refuge in one of the TV rooms in the recreation complex, simply by the virtue of the room missing a TV. The fact that the room was also at the far end of the hall was also a plus; practically no one bothered to walk all the way there, preferring to utilise the nearer rooms. And there were plenty of TV rooms, since the last thing the Brigade needed was regular fights among its men over who gets to watch live football telecasts.

No one would disturb him in his refuge, and he could spend his off-duty hours working with yarn in peace. Perfect.

"Knit one," he said softly to himself as he eyed the pattern, "and purl two–"

Alas, the loud crash from the next room not only interrupted his knitting but also ruined it, for he was so startled by the noise he accidentally yanked it apart.

He eyed the mess of yarn in his hands and sighed. So much for his initial endeavour into knitting. Might as well stick to embroidery, he decided as he stood up and jammed the ruined mess in his pocket, then headed to the next room to investigate the crash.

He opened the door. "Oh bloody hell," he exclaimed as he spotted someone – oh god, it had to be an old geezer with that white hair – being molested by that dodgy shelf. The poor bastard was the third one this week.

The other man in the room, a tall blond giant, had one side of the shelf in his hands and had lifted it a little when he noticed Arthur. He let go.

Arthur's German was limited to '_Ja'_, '_Nein'_, and _'Sprechen Sie Englisch?' _but he knew whatever the man being crushed by the shelf shouted was not complimentary.

"Please don't mind him," said the brick shithouse in the calm tone used by someone who is accustomed to such ridiculous situations, "he's just an idiot."

"What the hell, West!" the idiot under the shelf cried out in protest.

Arthur blinked. "I see. And you are?"

"Oh. _Obergefreiter _Ludwig Beilschmidt."

"Can't you two idiots do your introductions later? Get this thing off me!"

Oh, sod it. What the hell is an _Obergefreiter? _He wracked his brain, trying to remember what was the equivalent rank in CBAB. "I thought your name's West," he said as he held one side of the bookcase.

Ludwig squirmed slightly before he grabbed hold of the other side of the shelf. "That's just his nickname for me. Uh. Sir?" That last bit was added in obvious hesitation. It was understandable, since like him and his idiot friend, Arthur was dressed in civvies since he was off-duty; there was no way for the man to know his rank.

Arthur shook his head. "I'm no officer," he said – and neither was an _Obergefreiter, _that much he was certain – before he continued, "now let's get this off your mate."

A quick heave and the shelf was set upright, then shoved back in its proper place.

-x-x-

"Sarge, quit hijacking the story! That's not what happened!" Gilbert said, shaking his head. "I'm far too awesome and too cool to end up doing something – something _stupid_ like being knocked down by a fucking bookshelf!"

Ludwig rolled his eyes while Antonio hid a grin, for both of them knew better.

"See, Feli," Gilbert continued, "what _really_ happened was that our sergeant here was so overwhelmed by my awesome presence that he dropped his pansy knitting on the floor and literally couldn't say a word–"

His statement was cut short by the distinctive sound of a rifle being cocked. The sergeant's rifle, to be exact. "What was that, corporal?"

"Oh, nothing. Carry on, Sarge."

-x-x-

He gave up trying to figure it out. _"O__bergefreiter?"_

"Yes?" At Arthur's questioning look, Ludwig explained as he helped his companion, "Oh. Private."

"I see. And him?"

_"Stabsgefreiter_ – I mean, Corporal Gilbert Beilschmidt. My brother."

The corporal dusted his sleeves once he was standing up. He was not an old geezer after all; he just had hair like one, as well as a pair of rather freaky-looking eyes. "Who the fuck put that stupid shelf there anyway?"

"No idea. It's a bit dodgy, but you just found that out for yourself. You all right?"

"Yeah. Thanks, uh..."

"Sergeant Arthur Kirkland."

-x-x-

"And that," Arthur concluded, to Feliciano's furious nodding, "was how we _really_ met."

"I still like my version better," Gilbert said rather loftily.

"Which one? The one with the crazed militia, or the one with the Protoss and the Zerg?"

Gilbert snickered. "That's what I'm here for, Sarge. To share my awesomeness and bring some excitement in your boring tea-drinking, pansy-knitting life. And hey, at least now you know something about computer games!"

"Hah. You could've gone with your friend Bonnefoy's squad then, instead of mine."

"Who, Francis?" Gilbert made a face. "Oh, fuck _no. _He's not bad, but he's such a _loser."_

"Probably because he's French." Prejudices and stereotypes be damned, Arthur thought. And while he was at it, the frog too.

Gilbert sniggered. "What have you got against the French anyway?"

"What have _you_ got against kebabs?"

"I'm old-fashioned, I like wurst better than _d____öner__."_

Feliciano asked, "So who's Bonnefoy?"

"Now that, Feli," Gilbert said, "is another story."

"Oh god," Ludwig mumbled, then Gilbert kicked him in the shin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: **A de-anon from the LiveJournal kink meme.

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**A Game of Soldiers: Chapter 3**

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"At least let someone else do it? Please?" Ludwig pleaded. "I don't think Feliciano needs to hear about how my brother was in a covert ops with Sergeant Bonnefoy and the Space Marines."

Gilbert scowled and looked at Antonio for support, but received none. The man grinned and then said, "Sorry, but Ludwig's right."

"Traitor!"

Antonio merely laughed. "Go on, Sarge," he said, "let's hear you do this one."

-x-x-

When Sergeant Arthur Kirkland first received the news that he was one of the few in the British Army who was selected to join the Brigade, he was quite ecstatic in his own somewhat reserved manner, and celebrated the news as best he saw fit. While the others simply got piss-drunk, he had acted a bit more responsibly. He had bought drinks for his mates in his unit at the pub, called his brothers to inform them of his new deployment – they were far more enthusiastic about it than he was since it would mean not seeing him for quite a long while, a sentiment that was reciprocated – and settled all the necessary documentation in record time.

He had no problems settling in when he arrived at his new home either. The NCO quarters, though a bit small, were quite comfortable and well-furnished. Since the British contingent were among the first to arrive, Arthur even had the fortune to choose which unit he wanted to live in. He had settled for a nice corner unit that had a slightly bigger yard, pleased that he could indulge in his little passion for gardening in his free time.

He was also pleased that most of the others had chosen units on the other end of the street, for Arthur was a man who treasured peace and quiet. Those two commodities were a rarity back in his old camp, due to the sole reason of his then two immediate neighbours were from opposing camps of the local football derby.

Arthur had enjoyed his first few days at the Brigade after he officially reported for duty. There was not much to do at first, other than some random rubbish that officers thought up just for the sake of looking busy, and of course, being informed of some details regarding the members of his new squad. His 2IC would be from Germany while the rest had yet to be decided, but apparently his lads would likely be a mix of Spanish, Italian and German squaddies and they would all arrive within a week. He had been slightly disappointed to find that none of his countrymen would accompany him, but was relieved that he would not have any frogs – err, Frenchmen, in his squad.

Not that he hated the French or anything. Oh no, Arthur was a firm supporter of the Brigade's philosophy of developing a strong _esprit de corps_ among its multinational troops. Sure, the French made rather tasty food with hard to pronounce names; could not pronounce words starting with 'h' properly; had insisted on the 'e' in Concorde; were not all that good in actually winning wars, yet had decided that their rations would be the Brigade standard – Arthur _liked_ his Yorkie bars, thank you very much – and don't forget that French _bastard _who humiliated him during that secondary school trip to Nice–

He shook his head violently, took a few deep breaths and composed himself.

No, Arthur did not dislike the French, not at all. It is just that he would have preferred if the country had sent troops from the French Foreign Legion, due to the fact that the Legionnaires were _not_ French.

Therefore it was quite understandable that the man was slightly miffed to find that exactly five days after he had settled himself comfortably in his quarters, he returned from the administration building to find that someone was moving into the one right across the street. Someone who was currently unpacking as he sang along – loudly – to the _chanson_ playing on the radio, then waved and yelled, _"Ça va?" _when he noticed Arthur.

Arthur automatically plastered on a half-smile and then nodded in acknowledgment before he entered his own quarters.

So much for his peace and quiet, he grumbled silently as the singing continued.

Sod it all.

-x-x-

"Ve... I don't get it. If the sergeant says he doesn't hate the French, then how come he's saying all those unkind things about–"

Ludwig wisely clamped his hand over Feliciano's mouth, while Antonio put a finger to his lips and shook his head as he looked at the confused Italian. Gilbert's shoulders shook with silent laughter.

Feliciano blinked, then nodded. "Oh," he said once Ludwig removed his hand.

"There's a good lad," Gilbert said, imitating Arthur's accent with an impish smirk.

-x-x-

Arthur woke up the next morning with second thoughts.

Perhaps he should make an effort to be on civil terms with his new neighbour, frog – err, Frenchman or no, since he would have to set an example to his own men soon, wouldn't he? He was off-duty today and judging from the music playing outside, so was his neighbour. At least he could go and say hello, then maybe invite the man over for a cup of tea.

Maybe the man was not even French. Maybe he was from Belgium or even Luxembourg, Arthur decided, cheerfully ignoring the fact that the former had not agreed to send a contingent to CBAB, while the latter barely even had an army to begin with.

Once he was showered, dressed and had a quick breakfast, he stepped outside and crossed the street. "Hallo," he said, when he found the door open, "anyone home?"

"I'm in the back yard!" answered someone, presumably the place's rightful occupant. "Am 'aving breakfast, come join me!"

"Well that's very kind of you – _shittin' hell!"_

It was not the fact that there was a lavish spread of food to rival a hotel breakfast buffet on the outdoor picnic table that stunned Arthur. Nor was the fact that another smaller table nearby was set with silver cutlery, complete with a flower centrepiece and fancy tablecloth. Rather, it was the fact that the person currently piling some of that food on a plate was of all things, stark naked.

"Oh, hello there," the man greeted, cheerfully ignoring the flabbergasted expression on Arthur's face, "I'm Francis Bonnefoy. It's a nice sunny day, don't you think?"

-x-x-

"Ve, what's the big deal about getting some sun without clothes on? I do it all the – _mmmff!"_

This time, both Antonio and Ludwig hurried to cover Feliciano's mouth before he roused the wrath of their IC, nearly suffocating the poor young squaddie in the process.

Gilbert however, merely tapped his chin with a finger and eyed Feliciano with a speculative look. Ludwig glared at him.

-x-x-

"Is something wrong?" Francis asked in a tone commonly used by genuinely confused idiots.

"For god's sake put some clothes on, man!" Arthur snapped.

"What? Why? I don't see – oh." Francis gave Arthur a knowing look. _"Oh,"_ he repeated in that tone used by idiots who think they were so bleeding smart, "you're British. That accent."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "What of it?"

The man waved a hand rather flippantly. "Oh, nothing. Fine, I will soothe your outraged modesty–"

_"What?"_

"–and go put something on," finished Francis, before he strode past the still shocked and somewhat confused Arthur and through the door, muttering in French as he did. He returned a few moments later – thankfully dressed this time – in a simple shirt and khakis. By this time Arthur had cooled down somewhat, and thus did not object when the Frenchman put some food on a plate and handed it over to him.

Arthur eyed his plate then gingerly took a bite of a tartine. It was delicious.

He hated that.

"Ah, the _rosbif _has calmed down at last. How's the food? Enjoying it? Good, good," Francis continued to prattle as he gently pushed Arthur in the direction of the table, then motioned for him to sit down. "It's good that you are here to help finish all this. I enjoy cooking and I got a little carried away! I'd rather have these than those horrible, greasy things – eggs, bacon – they probably serve at the mess for breakfast. Don't you think so?"

Arthur, who had cooked and ate some of those greasy things for his own breakfast (the eggs were burnt while the bacon was more than just a bit singed, but he _liked _it that way, really!) did not agree, but he was still chewing on the tartine and could not state his actual opinion with his mouth full. Instead, he simply took a savage bite into the bread, earning him a grimace from the Frenchman.

Good.

"Coffee? Oh wait, you would probably prefer tea. I think I can manage that," said Francis. He went indoors and returned shortly with a steaming cup of tea.

"Thank you," Arthur muttered. He wondered if he should revise his opinion of the Frenchman. At least the man could make a good cuppa.

"Perhaps we should start this again. Francis Bonnefoy. _Sergent, _formerly of 7 BCA – _Bataillon de Chasseurs Alpins_." That last piece of information was added when Francis noticed that Arthur frowned at the unfamiliar acronym.

Arthur struggled with his mediocre knowledge of the French language for a moment before he figured out what the other man just said. So, a mountain infantry man, was he? And thank goodness the man was _not_ an officer. Arthur nearly shuddered at the thought of being under Francis' command. "Arthur Kirkland. Sergeant. Previously with the Second Fusiliers," he introduced himself.

"Ah, you're not an officer! You do have the bearing of one, though."

Arthur blinked. "Pardon?"

Francis laughed. "The way you started shouting and ordering around! I was almost sure you were an officer."

Arthur snorted. "Anyone else would have probably done the same if he or she saw a naked hairy Frenchman prancing about." And speaking of hair, he was sure that Francis' haircut was longer than regulation-length, and the same for that slight stubble on the man's chin.

"It doesn't hurt to get some decent sun once in a while! Especially you, with your – how do you say it – ah, _ghastly_ pasty, complexion."

It took a great amount of control from Arthur to stop himself from spluttering his tea. "It doesn't mean you have to take all your clothes off! And my complexion_ isn't _ghastly!"

The Frenchman laughed again. "No, of course not. I was just joking, your complexion is perfectly fine." He chuckled then added, "What's ghastly is your eyebrows!"

Arthur did choke on his tea this time. _"What?" _he then blurted.

"Oh, haven't you actually looked at them? Horrible, horrible things." The Frenchman shuddered theatrically. "They look like – oh, I do not know the English word for chenille–"

Arthur twitched. The officers and NCOs had all been told to set a good example to the enlisted members of the Brigade when he first arrived. A bloody nuisance that was, for he longed to throw a punch or two at Francis' face. While he had to admit that he had no idea what sort of _chenille _Franciswas referring to – definitely not the yarn, he was sure of that at least – it was more than likely something insulting, judging from the tone of the Frenchman. "And I suppose you're such a looker with that scraggly beard of yours?" he snarled.

"Of course," Francis said, striking a pose, "it is to be expected, hmm? I am handsome and rich, while you are British!"

Arthur stood up, clenching his fists in an effort to maintain his self-control. "I have better things to do than waste my time with some – some _exhibitionist!" _he snapped before he turned to leave.

"Come back for lunch!" Francis yelled, and Arthur did not bother to look behind him to know that the Frenchman had an oh-so-superior smirk on his face.

Even if he could scrounge up a tasty breakfast, the man was still an annoying frog. Oh wait, none of that now.

Annoying French bastard, Arthur corrected himself before he stomped inside his own quarters and slammed the door shut.

-x-x-

"Ve, I think you can tell a good story, Sarge," Feliciano decided. "Even better than Gilbert."

"Thank you," Arthur said, while Gilbert rolled his eyes.

"So how come you know this Sergeant Bonnefoy?" Feliciano asked, turning to the corporal.

Gilbert grinned. "You want the long version, or the short one?"

"Neither," Arthur interrupted before Feliciano could reply, "it's almost time. We're about to reach the landing zone, so get yourselves sorted."

"Spoilsport."

"My heart bleeds."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: **A de-anon from the LiveJournal kink meme.

* * *

**A Game of Soldiers: Chapter 4**

**

* * *

**

It was how Arthur wanted it; a clean dispersal, with everyone jumping off the chopper and then scrambling to secure the immediate area. Only Feliciano hesitated, but even then it was just for a quick moment before he found confidence in himself, jumped off and ran to take his position like a proper trooper. Those extra training sessions with Ludwig had done him good; a far cry compared to when he first arrived. Back then he looked like a squaddie fresh out of basic training, complete with a bright-eyed expression that practically screamed, 'So, how do I do this soldiering thing then?'

This would be their first major training exercise together. Arthur privately thought that the Brigade should have done this earlier but just like during its formation, those high-ranking bastards could not agree on the when, where, how and why – although in the end it was more likely a case of why the hell_ not._ In the interests of 'breaking new ground' or some similar rubbish, the training exercise was held in a location basically none of his lads were familiar with.

Arthur had a feeling those high-ranking bastards just pasted a huge map on the wall and then got someone to throw a dart at it.

As for the exercise, the idea was simple; split up into small five-man patrols and then each patrol group would try to make it from A to B, all the while trying to avoid bumping into any of the other patrols. And if they did, well – it meant you were supposed to do what squaddies did when they bumped into enemy forces.

You shot the hell out of them, of course.

Arthur eyed the bright yellow blank-firing attachment and the equally bright yellow magazine on his SA80. Granted, they would only be firing blank rounds, but that did not mean they could not _enjoy_ the experience. After all, the lads were all fitted out with SAWES equipment – or as what Gilbert liked to call it, a cooler version of Laser Tag.

One fun thing about being in the Brigade was that the lads could test out new toys to play with. The SAWES gear being used in the exercise was a fancier, experimental version of the one Arthur was used to back in the army. All of them were wearing vests fitted with sensors that would detect 'shots' fired from their weapons, which had a laser targeting system attached. Unlike the system Arthur was familiar with, these vests did not call out the 'hits' that were scored, but merely logged them in and the results would be presented to each soldier at the end of the exercise.

A pity, really. He would have liked to see Francis' expression upon hearing that synthesised voice chanting out 'wounded, left arm; wounded, chest; wounded, head' when he fired a few rounds in the frog's direction.

Not that he _wanted _to run into any of the other patrols. Oh no, far from it. He wanted his patrol to come out tops. However, should they in fact run into any of the other lads, Arthur would want it to be Francis' patrol. But enough of that though; Gilbert was done with the map and had picked out a course. The German was a fuckwit, true, but Arthur knew that despite appearances, the man took this exercise seriously and could be more than trusted with the map-reading. With Antonio at point and Ludwig as the tail-end Charlie, the patrol made their way deeper into the forest.

-x-x-

The day had passed off rather uneventfully and the patrol had made good time; Gilbert's map-reading was better than anyone had expected. They had camped for the night in a quite secure location and Arthur figured that they deserved one hot meal after their progress.

So there they were, just sitting around a few small disposable folding stoves, munching on their food. Dear god, Arthur grumbled quietly, how he missed his Yorkie bars; the fancy French chocolate in the ration kit was just not to his tastes. At least everyone else were enjoying their meal but for one; Gilbert had shuddered when a mix-up had ended up with him getting a ration kit with sauté of rabbit on the menu. The corporal was fond of rabbits; apparently he owned one when he was a little boy. "They're too cute to be eaten," he complained. Arthur had taken pity on the man and traded his sausage and sauerkraut for the offending meal.

The sergeant had also owned a rabbit as a pet when he was a boy, and was from a nation with men who were not only known for bravery in battle – tough as nails, made of British steel and all that – but were also perfectly capable of using military helicopters to rescue stranded dogs and kittens. He could almost understand how Gilbert felt.

"So," Feliciano said, "you never told me how the two of you met." He looked at Antonio, then at Gilbert.

"School," Gilbert answered. "We moved around a lot, and Antonio just happened to be in my class in one of those occasions. He immediately saw how cool I was and decided to stay close to me, hoping some of it would rub off."

Antonio chuckled. "Actually, I figured that someone needed to keep an eye on him, since he was the smallest kid in the class," he said.

"Hey! It wasn't my fault the school made me skip a grade or two!" Gilbert protested. "And I didn't need you keeping an eye on me!" he added, glaring at Antonio.

Arthur gave the corporal an incredulous look. _"You _hopped grades?"

"Yeah, the school made me take some tests and they were easy." Gilbert scowled before he complained, "How come everyone thinks I'm stupid or something?"

"Do you really want us to answer that?" Ludwig muttered.

Gilbert frowned and threw his half-eaten chocolate bar at his brother in response. Ludwig ducked.

"So how come you know Sergeant Bonnefoy?" Feliciano asked.

The corporal shrugged. "Same thing. School," he said.

"So this is a school reunion for you guys?"

Gilbert struck a pose. "Hey, I can't help it if they miss my undeniably awesome self and decided to look me up!"

Ludwig picked up the tossed chocolate bar and threw it back at his older brother. It hit Gilbert on the nose.

"I'll get you for that, West! Anyway, Francis and Antonio were already friends, so it was natural I joined their group. Did loads of cool stuff together."

"Actually," Antonio corrected, "he just latched onto us and we couldn't get rid of him."

"Hey!" Gilbert protested. Then it was Antonio's turn to be decked with that chocolate bar.

Antonio eyed the chocolate bar, shrugged and finished it off before he said, "We did do lots of cool stuff though, like Gilbert said. The most outrageous pranks and stunts, you name it. Too bad that Francis refused to participate in that one stunt we planned for our final year at school."

"Yeah, he said that he didn't have the heart to go on with the plan. Said that he didn't want to make that oh-so-gorgeous arts teacher he had set his eyes on cry. 'A beautiful woman like her shouldn't be forced to shed tears', or some bullshit like that, he said. All that planning! Wasted! Because of him and–"

"Forget it," Arthur said quickly before Gilbert could go on, "I don't want to hear about his fucking arts teacher or him fucking his arts teacher, or even the other way around."

"What was that stunt you wanted to do?" Feliciano asked curiously.

"Enough," Ludwig pleaded, _"enough."_

Arthur laughed and took pity on the younger man. "All right. I think a change of topic is called for." He eyed the Italian member of the group. "So tell us, Feliciano," he said, "why did you decide to sign up for a career of running around like an idiot humping a bergen on your back?"

Feliciano blinked. "Ve?"

"He wants to know why you joined the army," Ludwig explained.

"Oh! Well, it's like a tradition in the family! And my grandfather was a really great soldier, so I guess I wanted to be like him."

Arthur blinked. "Really?" he said.

Feliciano nodded. "My older brother Lovino's in the military too! He applied to join the Brigade as well, so maybe he'll be here with us in a few months!"

"Oh," Arthur said, automatic smile ready on his face, "that's interesting." His brain however, was screaming, _oh dear god, not another one._

"Yeah, 'cause you don't really look like the soldiering type, Feli," Antonio said.

"Actually, I was hoping that I would be assigned to catering," Feliciano admitted. No surprises there; the lad was a wonderful cook. "But Ludwig's been helping me out, so now I can keep up with you guys!" he added, while the tall German turned slightly pink at the statement.

"That's good. Right, you lot have your bedtime stories already. Gilbert, you and Antonio are up for first watch," Arthur said, "and Ludwig and I will relieve you at zero one hundred."

"Hey West," Gilbert said as he stood up, smirking, "want your big brother to tuck you in?"

"Go away."

"Aww."

-x-x-

The patrol set out early at dawn. Normally Feliciano was more than rather difficult to rouse, but somehow the Italian was reasonably awake when it was time to leave. Likely thanks to Ludwig, Arthur thought; who knew how the German managed the feat. Probably with promises of pasta or something. The lad would do _anything_ for pasta, Arthur noticed.

They had walked for about four hours or so when their point man Gilbert slowed his pace, then ceased walking altogether as he raised one clenched fist, signalling to the patrol to come to a halt. He then gave the hand signal to crouch; the lads passed the signal as they stooped low, taking care not to make any noise.

Arthur could not help but immediately wonder if the man had spotted signs of another patrol. Or was it something else? Whatever it was, he was about to find out, since Gilbert tapped his arm and gave the signal for Arthur to join him. The sergeant silently crept to where the German crouched.

"What do you make of that, Sarge?" Gilbert asked softly, gesturing with his rifle at an exposed patch of dirt.

Arthur studied the trail of footprints the corporal indicated. The footprints were not quite recent; most of them had worn away, but enough remained of one to show a decent impression of a boot sole. Next to the footprint trail were a series of deep, rectangular-shaped impressions on the ground. The strange impressions were slightly bigger than the boot print.

Strange. Could it be one of the patrols? The pattern of the boot sole bore no resemblance to their standard-issue boots, but there were always squaddies who liked to wear gear from other manufacturers. And still, what of those rectangular imprints?

"No idea what it is, but it's more than just a few days old at least. Should we report it?" Gilbert asked. Likely out of formality, for the look on his face clearly indicated that he was against the idea. Breaking radio silence for this?

Arthur shook his head. "It's not worth calling it in. Probably some camper. Or maybe even a muppet from the other patrols, leaving it as a joke or something." He smiled. "Maybe it was your old friend Francis."

Gilbert made a face. "Nah, this isn't his style. Besides, there's no way in hell him and his guys would get past us."

"Really?"

"What, Francis? He couldn't lead lemmings off a cliff."

"I'll take your word for it. Come on, let's get moving. Don't want to spook the lads."

"You got it."

-x-x-

Feliciano crouched and stayed as still as he could. Part of him was nervous, while another part of him was horribly excited at the same time. Had Gilbert spotted an enemy patrol? Were they going to start shooting soon? Wait, that would mean getting shot at too! _Ve, getting shot at! _Oh wait, what would his brother do in his situation? Lovino would scream 'Chigi!' and flee in the other direction, that's what. No, that would not work. If he tried that now, if the enemy patrol did not shoot at him, _Arthur_ would.

"Easy, Feli," Antonio whispered from behind.

Feliciano blinked. How did Antonio know? The man must be psychic or something, the Italian decided, not realising that his shaking hands were what gave his nervousness away. Nevertheless, he appreciated the reassurance from the more experienced Spaniard. Ludwig was currently the tail-end Charlie and could not see his predicament; something the Italian was thankful for, as he did not want his friend to be disappointed in him.

Feliciano turned his attention back to the two NCOs in front of him. Arthur had crept noiselessly to Gilbert's position and the two seemed to be discussing something. A tactical plan of attack? Plan to stop and eat? That would be good, since he was feeling rather hungry. Ve, pasta would be nice. Mmm, _pasta._ Wait, now focus, Feliciano! Remember what Ludwig said; there's always time for pasta later, so focus!

But why were they taking so long? Just when Feliciano thought he could not take any more and wanted to just ask – _loudly_ – what was going on, Arthur gave them the signal to proceed. The Italian breathed a sigh of relief as the rest of the patrol stood up to resume their pace.

"You okay?" Antonio asked softly.

Feliciano nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. He received a pat on the shoulder from the Spaniard, then a gentle shove to send him on his way.

-x-x-

"Hey Sarge," Gilbert said when the patrol sat down to take a ten-minute break, "why do you hate the French so much anyway?"

Arthur snorted. "Same reason _you_ scream bloody murder at the Dutch when you've got a footy match against them."

"Aw, come on! There's got to be more to it than that! I mean, you want to lop off German heads when our teams meet – not that it actually matters since you lot always lose anyway – but you can still hang out with me and West," Gilbert said. "Come on, tell me. I'll buy you a drink when we get back."

"No, thanks."

The last time he went out drinking with Gilbert was a disaster, he recalled. Arthur was not keen with the idea in the first place, but the German had looked somewhat pathetic and desperate for company Arthur could not help but feel sorry for him. For some reason Gilbert's countrymen avoided him – unless of course, there was a drinking contest and they needed him to represent their nation, for Gilbert could drink anyone under the table. Unfortunately for Gilbert that night, his little brother was busy with something and refused to come with him, while Antonio had other plans. Arthur had agreed to go with Gilbert only when the corporal swore up, down and sideways that he would not drag Francis along.

That was the last thing Arthur remembered before he had awakened the next morning with a hangover the size of Gilbert's ego, and the owner of said ego snoring on his couch. Upon interrogation, Arthur was mortified to discover that somehow both him and Gilbert had gotten into a very, _very_ loud, drunken argument at the pub about which country had better children's shows in full view of some of the other Brigade members. The other lads had decided Arthur had won that argument, as not only he was able to sing the Makka Pakka song, he had also done the little dance that went with it, while Gilbert's impression of Bernd das Brot was not quite up to par.

Arthur had refused to go anywhere but for official duties for a week after that humiliating occasion, and he certainly did not wish for a repeat of it.

"Come on," Gilbert begged, "I'm dying to know here!"

"No. Now sod off. And _stop_ pouting and making googly eyes at me, that only works with Ludwig. Not me."

"You suck, Sarge."

"No, I'm not into that either."

* * *

**Additional note: **

i. SAWES - Small Arms Weapons Effects Simulator

ii. Makka Pakka is a character in the BBC children's show, _In The Night Garden._ Bernd das Brot (Bernd the Bread) is a character in the German children's TV channel .

iii. View the Makka Pakka dance at (delete spaces): www. bbc. co. uk/ cbeebies/ inthenightgarden /songs /makkapakka/


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: **A de-anon from the LiveJournal kink meme.

* * *

**A Game of Soldiers: Chapter 5**

**

* * *

**

It was almost dark when they had their first brush with an enemy patrol.

Ludwig was lead scout; then it was Arthur, Feliciano, and Gilbert, while Antonio brought up the rear. They were trying to make their way to their planned camp for the night while they still had some light. Earlier the patrol had gone through a dense patch of woods, a decision that proved to be a mistake. They had made it as far as about a quarter of a kilometre before they came across a chunk of trees packed so close together that there was no way they could make it through with their bergens. It was no use; they had to turn back, then go around the patch of close-knit trees, losing a considerable amount of daylight in the process.

The fact that Arthur had insisted on not keeping to the high ground, but instead alternating between going up and down, also meant that it took them longer to travel short distances. Feliciano had wondered why in one of their few breaks and fortunately the sergeant was not in a too foul mood to chew the Italian's head off, but instead had actually bothered to explain his reasoning – albeit in a slightly snappy tone.

"I _know_ it takes longer, Feli," Arthur had said with somewhat considerable patience, while the Italian tried his best not to tremble too much, "but this way is better. We don't leave much signs, we're less likely to get ambushed, and we don't run into the enemy – unless we want to."

Feliciano kept his mouth shut after that.

Ludwig as the lead scout did everything by the book; he would move slowly, stop to observe the surroundings, then move again. The rest would follow him, at the same time still keeping an eye out for anything he might have missed, especially with the fading daylight.

They were only a few kilometres away from their intended camp when they had their first contact. Antonio had turned around to scan his surroundings when he thought he saw some movement. He blinked, then narrowed his eyes as he scanned the area again through the sight of his SA80, trying to confirm what he had just seen was not his imagination.

It was not.

There it was; a figure just skulking near the trees, roughly a hundred metres away – maybe even less. It had to be one of the other patrols, for only a military man would behave like that; stopping to take a look around before moving just like Ludwig had done. Fortunately for Antonio, the Spaniard was well hidden in the trees and shadows, and thus had escaped notice.

Antonio was not quite used to the SA80 they were currently using; like Ludwig, he preferred the G36 as he was more familiar with it. He pulled the bolt back and hoped the click the weapon made as it cocked was not loud enough to attract attention. It probably was not, but the character seemed to stop; Antonio was not certain if the man halted because he heard the soft noise, or because he simply wanted to take another look around.

Oh, screw it. Antonio was sure that there was more movement to the man's rear; it must be the rest of the other patrol. There was no time for him to signal the others and besides, they had the advantage of being on higher ground anyway.

"Contact rear!" Antonio yelled. He opened fire and smiled as he felt the satisfaction of hearing his target shouting when the man's vest beeped to indicate that he was hit. Then he rushed to take cover behind a tree as the other patrol realised that they were under attack and started to return fire.

The Spaniard heard Gilbert swear something in German, then the sounds of the corporal running near him to take a firing position. More sounds; rapid footfalls of the other lads, as well as short bursts of firing from both patrols.

The encounter was less than a minute, but it felt much, much longer. Fire, take cover, then fire again. Their position on higher ground gave them a slightly better line of sight, but with the fast-approaching nightfall even that small advantage was disappearing. It would not be long before both patrols would be firing blind, since in this exercise none of them were using tracer rounds, only blanks.

Arthur must have realised this, for the sergeant began running and yelled for them to move on. "Rally! Rally!" he shouted. The rest of them ran like mad after him.

"Move it, Toni!" Gilbert shouted in between the short bursts he fired, acting as rearguard for his running companion.

The Spaniard obediently ran past the German, then stopped when he reached Arthur some distance ahead. He turned and fired a few rounds of his own to provide cover when Gilbert retreated.

Feliciano was kneeling next to Arthur. The Italian was trying to provide covering fire, but it was obvious from his trembling that he was not hitting much. "Leg it, Feli!" Arthur snapped, shoving him roughly with one hand. "Antonio, get him," the sergeant then ordered when the Italian did not move from his position.

"Got it!" Antonio grabbed the nervous Italian by the collar, hauling him to his feet before dragging him off in a dead run.

"Target!" Arthur yelled in the distance. Antonio heard the call repeated by Gilbert moments later.

The other patrol must have given up on taking cover. They had taken more than just a few 'hits', so they probably figured that they might as well throw caution to the wind and try to score a few of their own.

Antonio heard some more bursts of gunfire before the sounds faded away as he ran, dragging Feliciano with him. The Italian recovered from his initial shock after a while, causing Antonio to blink in confusion when the younger man broke free from his grip and actually overtook him, running madly with weapon, heavy bergen and all.

"On me! On me!" Ludwig yelled much further ahead.

Antonio could no longer hear gunfire; the other patrol must have given up – at least for the moment – and both Arthur and Gilbert must be running like mad in their direction. Sure enough, the two men soon joined them. Arthur urged them all to keep moving, with him and Antonio taking turns at rearguard.

Although they moved as fast as they could, it was a while before they reached their intended destination. Arthur decided that there would be no hot meals for anyone tonight, not wanting to give away their location should there be any other patrols around. Still, Antonio thought a nice meal and a chance to rest his feet was good enough after their first encounter of the exercise.

-x-x-

"So," Gilbert asked, "how many hits did you score?"

"You're only asking because you're just dying to tell us how many you've got," Arthur said wryly.

"I was only trying to be polite. And since you don't want me to be polite, fine. I must have gotten at least three hits," Gilbert said proudly. "Heard the poor bastards' vests beeping like crazy. Antonio?"

The Spaniard grinned. "Two, I think."

"Hey, that means we took out that entire patrol! This is awesome!"

"Maybe not," Ludwig pointed out, "you could have been shooting at the same target. We won't know for certain until the whole exercise is over and we get debriefed."

"You know little brother, you really should try this something called, 'keeping up the morale of your troops'."

"Well, we're all sure we scored some hits," Arthur said, while Ludwig sputtered, "but did any of us get hit? Anyone's vests went off? I know mine didn't." He looked around.

The German brothers shook their heads, and so did Antonio. Then all of them turned to Feliciano.

"Ve... I don't... think so?" the Italian said, cowering slightly under the stares. "I'm pretty sure my vest was all nice and quiet!"

Gilbert chuckled. "That's great, Feli!" he said, while the Italian beamed. "You're on your way to becoming like your grandpa!"

"Ve, I was wondering... why did you guys join the military? Sergeant?"

Arthur shrugged. "Guaranteed employment, mostly. And I wasn't all that interested in books after I finished secondary school."

"Huh. And here I was thinking you were a public schoolboy gone wrong, with that posh-sounding accent of yours," Gilbert said, a statement that received some nods from the others. Everyone at one point was quite fascinated at how the sergeant's upper lip hardly moved when he spoke. The corporal even joked that the only time it did move was when Arthur was pissed off and started yelling.

"What about you two?" Arthur asked, looking at the two brothers.

"Did my military service and discovered I was really awesome at it, so I figured I might as well make a career out of something I liked," Gilbert answered. "I thought that I could pay for West's expenses – books and stuff – so he could go to a decent university or something, but what does he do after _his_ military service? He does the same thing I did."

"I have to keep _you_ out of trouble," Ludwig said matter-of-factly, while Gilbert snickered.

"Antonio? Why did you join the army?" Feliciano asked.

Antonio laughed and scratched his head. "Well, you see... it's kind of embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Hell, I gotta hear this," Gilbert said eagerly. "So? Why did you sign up for the military?"

The Spaniard laughed again. "Actually, I can't remember."

There was a long pause as everyone else stared at him.

"What?" Antonio said, confused. Then he ducked as almost everyone grabbed handfuls of leaves on the ground and threw them at him.

"All right, pack up for the night. Gilbert and I'll go on first watch. Ludwig, Feliciano," Arthur ordered, "relieve us at zero two hundred." He stood up and absently ruffled Feliciano's head in a gesture of encouragement which surprised the Italian before he left, Gilbert trailing after him.

-x-x-

"So what do you think?" Arthur asked quietly.

Gilbert thankfully caught the sergeant's meaning and did not ramble on some ridiculous topic. "Not too bad," he said, "they can depend on each other. Still needs some work, but they're all right."

"Feliciano."

Gilbert nodded. "Him, mostly. Those extra drills West puts him through are helping, but he'll need more than that when we get back." When Arthur murmured in agreement, he asked, "So what do you think of Antonio?"

"He's got that stupid smile stuck on his face, but he's got a cool head in a firefight," Arthur replied.

"Yeah, but he's not as awesome as yours truly though. We'll come out tops in this exercise, don't you worry."

The two then remained silent as they kept watch. Hours must have passed in relative calm before a faint noise caught their attention. Arthur straightened, a gesture mimicked by Gilbert.

"You heard that, Sarge?" Gilbert asked softly.

"Yeah," Arthur said, trying to figure out in which direction the noise came from.

And there it was again; a series of _crack-crack-crack-thump_s in the distance, then another. Both men stared at each other; it was the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Other patrols exchanging fire? The sound of gunfire grew louder and louder, but there was something odd about the noise.

"Do those sound like SA80's to you, Sarge?"

"Fuck no," Arthur replied, and he knew that both him and Gilbert were thinking of the very same thing.

_What the hell was going on?_

_

* * *

_

**Additional notes:**

i. SA80 – SA80 (Mk II), the service rifle for the British armed forces

ii. G36 – Heckler & Koch G36, the service rifle for the _Bundeswehr_ and the Spanish Army


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: **A de-anon from the LiveJournal kink meme.

* * *

**A Game of Soldiers: Chapter 6**

**

* * *

**

There was no mistaking it, Arthur decided. Judging by the sounds, at least two kinds of weapons being fired. There was the familiar low _crack-crack-crack_ of the SA80s, but there was also another, sharper, _messier_-sounding series of cracks that he thought was somewhat familiar, but could not quite identify. Gilbert muttered something in German that Arthur did not understand, but guessed that whatever it was, it could not be good since the man was frowning. Perhaps he was thinking of something along the same lines as well.

It did not help that none of them had any night vision or even infra-red gear, due to issues concerning – yet again – standard equipment. The Germans wanted to use the _Infanterist der Zukunft,_ while the French had insisted on their _FELIN _and in the end the squabble over which system was to be incorporated for Brigade use was not quite solved, so they were all down with rather basic gear for this exercise. Standard combat body armour (not too bad, really, since these were lighter than the ones Arthur was used to), basic comms (which was a bit shite), new sights for their weapons (thankfully, _not_ shite) and of course, no night vision or IR gear (shite shite _shite!)_ Be resourceful, they said. While they were all for futuristic fighting systems for the individual soldier, being overly-dependent on technology was not a good thing either. Now just run along to this exercise and we will let you play with some new toys once we get this standard system thing sorted out, all right?

In the end, the squaddies just shrugged and did it like always; put up _and_ shut up. Besides, all of them had gone through much worse things during the selection process for the Brigade, right?

Right. Except for the fact that back then during selection you actually knew what the hell was going on.

"Let's go," Arthur said to Gilbert.

-x-x-

When both of them returned to the camp site, the rest had just finished cleaning up and were about to get some sleep. Well, one of them anyway. Feliciano was already bundled up and half-dozing, but apparently the other lads had also heard the gunfire.

"Sergeant? We thought we heard some shots," Ludwig said, while the rest nodded in agreement. "Are there other patrols nearby?"

"Gunfire, yes. Other patrols, I'm not too sure."

Ludwig blinked. "What?"

Arthur ignored him for the moment and turned to Antonio instead. "Tonio, get on the radio. Those shots we heard? Not all of them are from SA80's, so that means there's someone else here and I want to know what the fuck is going on. The rest of you, pack up and get ready to move."

Feliciano rubbed his eyes. "Someone else? What do you mean by that?" he asked, not quite awake.

"I mean that there other characters in the area firing other weapons. That means there are non-Brigade characters around, and there's the possibility of them actually using live ammunition."

That got the Italian's full attention. "Ve! B-b-but," he started to gibber, "we've only got blanks!"

"My thoughts exactly. Antonio, how are you doing then?"

"I'm fine!"

Arthur curbed the urge to sigh. "I meant the radio."

"Oh, sorry." The Spaniard shook his head. "It's strange. I can't get a signal!"

Feliciano was more than just gibbering at that point, for he was practically flapping his arms about like a parakeet on steroids. "Ve! Ve! What're we going to do?"

"We," Arthur said as he grasped Feliciano's arms and pulled him up, "are going to calm down and act like professional soldiers." He then gently shoved the Italian in the direction of his bergen. "You all heard me, pack your gear. We may have to ditch our bergens, so make sure all the important stuff is in your belt-kit."

"I'm sure the sergeant didn't mean only pasta," Ludwig whispered to Feliciano, who was busy stuffing most of his rations into the pouches on his belt-kit.

"Antonio, get someone else to help with your stuff if you have to. You keep trying with that radio."

"So what now?" Gilbert asked quietly as he sat next to Arthur, who was checking his belt-kit pouches. The German had already sorted his gear long ago; amazing, especially from someone who could barely dress decently when he was in his civvies.

"I _know_ you want to run out there and find out what's going on, see if the lads from that other patrol are all right," he said, and Gilbert smirked a little, "but it's best we wait for some light. I'd rather get moving right now myself, but we're practically blind in the dark here and the last thing we need is to stumble into another patrol – or worse, whoever else that's out there firing those shots."

Gilbert nodded. "Think it's just a surprise bit thrown in? You know, just to spice up the exercise a bit?"

"I honestly can't tell. Considering the amount of fuck-all I've had so far, maybe." Arthur decided that there was still a bit of room in his pouches for that last Yorkie bar he had been saving. He then eyed the corporal. "Go on, say it."

"Those weird prints we stumbled on earlier... think those had anything to do with all this?"

"They're not really recent, so maybe not. Now check up on the rest of the lads, will you? They're starting to get spooked."

"Not my West!" Gilbert said proudly, and Arthur could not help but smile at that.

-x-x-

Arthur noted that everyone was more than glad to leave as soon as there was enough light. Even Feliciano was up bright and early, although he was more jittery than usual, barely keeping those nonsense exclamations of his under control. So he was stuck between Ludwig and Antonio when they marched, so that the poor kid had at least someone in his sights to run to in panic just in case something _did_ happen. If there was one thing the Italian was good at other than cooking, it was running.

Both Arthur and Gilbert had decided that they would make their way to where they heard the gunfire last night, have a quick look around and then decided what to do from there; either go on with the exercise like nothing happened, or call it in and then get the hell out of there, exercise be damned.

Arthur was starting to consider the latter, but since Antonio had been up almost all night trying to get anyone on the radio – and failing, perhaps calling it in could be ruled out, but getting out of the area still sounded like a good idea. The Spaniard had even taken the damned thing apart last night trying to figure out what was wrong with it, but the problem was that no one could find _anything_ wrong with it.

"Maybe we're getting jammed or something," Antonio had muttered, and to say that Arthur disliked that possibility was an understatement.

The conversation he had with Gilbert before they set off had not improved his mood either. He had mentioned to the corporal how this morning seemed a little different somehow.

"Yeah, it's quiet. _Too_ quiet," Gilbert had observed. Then the bastard smirked. "Damn, I always wanted to say that."

It had taken Arthur a great amount of self-control to prevent himself from smacking the corporal's head with the butt of his rifle. Instead, he had satisfy himself by saying, "Real funny, Beilschmidt."

"I knew you'd agree."

"Oh, go fuck yourself."

Still, Gilbert was right – it was just too quiet. Usually they could hear the soft sounds of birds, insects and the like as they covered ground, but there were none of that this morning. It was as if even the wildlife were spooked into silence, or had fled into far more safer places where idiots running around and firing guns were not around.

Arthur did not blame them.

-x-x-

It did not take them long to reach their intended destination, nor was it hard to pinpoint where the actual contact last night had taken place. Gilbert had found a shell casing lying on the ground and they simply worked their way there, noting the other few casings, footprints and the odd torn branch or snapped twig.

"Let's have a quick look around," Arthur ordered when they reached the contact site, "Feli, you're with me. Antonio, Ludwig, you two get on stag."

Spent shell casings were all over the place; whichever patrol – patrols? – here last night certainly gave whatever they came across loads. Arthur certainly hoped that he was just hearing things differently last night, and that it was simply a case of the lads from the Brigade coming across each other – or else giving the hostile force loads would not have mattered much if they were firing fucking blanks.

"Sarge?"

Arthur looked up to see Gilbert holding something up in the air. The corporal tossed it to him; he easily caught it. Then he blinked. "Shit," he said.

"My thoughts exactly."

The spent casing lying in Arthur's palm was definitely longer than the 5.56mm ones they were using.

"Ve... sarge?"

Arthur tucked the casing in his pocket. "Nothing to panic about, Feli," he said. Well, _not yet_ anyway. "Have another look around and see if you can find something, all right?"

Once the Italian was out of the way, peering here and there for anything out of ordinary, Arthur walked to where Gilbert was. The corporal was squatting down and was eyeing the ground.

"Find any more?" Arthur asked. The casing Gilbert had tossed at him was probably a 7.62 mm. He knew that plenty of people used them in hunting, but he doubted that there would be civilians in the area. They were in the middle of nowhere's arse, after all. Only lunatics and squaddies would be around and even the latter, not voluntarily.

Gilbert nodded. "Yeah. Some here, and there," he said, pointing. "Likely fired by just one person. Two at the most."

"So our lads probably gave whoever that was some fancy noise before the lads ran off, judging by all the footprints about. At least no one seems to have gotten hurt. No trace of blood anywhere," Arthur said, while Gilbert nodded in agreement. The sergeant paused for a bit before he added, "Maybe it was just something thrown in to spice up the exercise a bit."

Gilbert did not look too convinced. "I don't know, Sarge."

"Oh?"

The German wordlessly got up, walked a bit and then pointed. Arthur followed him, looked at what Gilbert wanted to show him and very nearly swore his head off.

Right next to scattered casings was a clear rectangular-shaped impression in the ground, every bit of it identical to the ones they came across yesterday.

"What now?" Arthur heard Gilbert ask.

What now, indeed.

* * *

**Additional notes:**

i. _Infanterist der Zukunft_ and _FELIN _are German and French modern soldier systems; basically with the system a soldier would be equipped with an integrated 'set' of high technology weapons and equipment.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: **A de-anon from the LiveJournal kink meme.

* * *

**A Game of Soldiers: Chapter 7**

**

* * *

**

"Gilbert, how far do we have to go to reach our RV?"

The corporal thought for a moment before he replied, "About three days, tops."

Arthur frowned. "Fastest route?"

Gilbert nodded. "Maybe we could make it in two days, if we keep moving at night. But I don't like that idea."

"Me neither," Arthur replied. God knew what else they would run into in the dark without any proper weapons. Rival patrols were one thing, but unknown and not to mention armed things that leave strange footprints were another. "How far are we from the nearest town? Or even a main road?" he asked.

The corporal shook his head. "I know what you're thinking Sarge, but sorry to disappoint you, that doesn't work either. We're just too far. Our best bet is still our scheduled RV. Or if we can get the radio working, request for an extraction."

"Can't blame me for trying," Arthur said wryly, while Gilbert chuckled.

As much as Arthur hated to admit it, while the corporal's behaviour may be ridiculous at times, his advice on the field was sound. Like him, Gilbert had actual combat experience; probably even more than Antonio, whereas Ludwig and Feliciano had little to none. The closest thing the Italian had to combat experience before this was probably shooing cats away from his precious meal of pasta – and Arthur suspected that he did not have much luck with it. Ludwig, though green, could at least keep a clear head in a fight, but Arthur doubted Feliciano would be able to do the same.

He needed to get his lads out of this fuck-all relatively safe and sound, trigger-happy bastards and gutless pansies and all.

Arthur let out a sigh. "Figure out the fastest way to get to that RV, keeping us away from this area as best as you can. We'll still camp tonight, but come morning we'll ditch our bergens at first light and then run like idiots for it."

"Got it."

-x-x-

Feliciano searched rather aimlessly in the immediate area, not knowing what exactly he was supposed to look for. However, since he was afraid that Arthur or Gilbert would yell at him if he just stood there and did nothing, he made a show of looking around. Sure, there were spent casings and footprints all over the place, but what else? Still confused, he ambled about a little bit before he finally worked up the courage to call out to Arthur. "Sarge," he said rather timidly, "I didn't find anything."

Arthur was talking with Gilbert, but the sergeant heard him. "It's all right, Feli," said the Englishman, "just get back on stag."

What were they talking about? Feliciano could not help but think it was probably something really important, since even Gilbert looked dead serious, instead of that usual slightly-smirking expression the Italian was used to seeing on the corporal.

Feliciano soon found himself wishing Ludwig were there to explain to him what was going on. The tall German was really smart, and Feliciano was sure that he would have no problems figuring out what the other two men were so concerned about. Wait, where was Ludwig anyway? Oh yes, he was on stag with Antonio.

When the sergeant called for the rest of the lads later to explain how they would proceed next, Feliciano grew more confused when he noted the others' reactions. Arthur simply wanted them to be the first patrol to reach the RV and finish the exercise... right? Right?

Antonio had simply blinked, shrugged and than smiled after Arthur's explanation, easing most of Feliciano's worry that something was seriously wrong. But when the little Italian turned to Ludwig, the worry returned in full force. At first glance, the tall German looked rather stoic, but Feliciano had been around the man long enough to spot nervousness showing in his eyes. So when they started moving again, Feliciano was less attentive to his surroundings and thus made a bit more noise than usual. At one point he must have accidentally stepped on a dry twig; the loud crack it made when it snapped nearly made him jump. He winced, hoping that Arthur did not hear him. However, Antonio turned around to take a good look at him. The Spaniard did not say a word, but he slowed his pace a little so Feliciano could keep a closer distance to the man.

They must have walked for hours, barely taking breaks in between. After a while Feliciano finally realised that unlike yesterday or the day before, the patrol were not alternating between higher and lower ground. "Ve..." he muttered to himself, "the sergeant must really want to reach the RV first." Still, it was nice not having to climb all those hills carrying their heavy bergens. Feliciano had _almost_ regretted shoving those extra pasta rations in his.

There was not much cheerful banter when they set up camp for the night. Arthur decided against having a hot meal, much to Feliciano's disappointment; the Italian had been looking forward to a nice warm container of pasta. Gilbert tried to lighten the atmosphere by – well, by being himself, but everyone else was either just too tired, or just plain not in the mood.

"Remember lads," Arthur said after they finished eating, "essentials in your belt-kits. We're leaving the bergens behind in the morning. I hope you had the sense not to bring anything important that you'd regret leaving behind."

Feliciano could not help but sniff a little. "Such a waste of pasta, ve..." he muttered softly, but his comment was still loud enough for Arthur to hear.

"Don't worry Feliciano," the sergeant said, "we'll treat ourselves to a nice meal at that Italian restaurant in town when we get back, all right? You can have all the pasta you want."

Feliciano stared at him with undisguised excitement. "Really?"

"Sure! After all, the corporal's buying."

"What? Hey, wait!" Gilbert protested. "How come it's on me? I don't care how cute he is, do you have any idea how much food that kid could shove in his mouth? And he only eats the expensive stuff, too!"

"You're the one with the most 'kills', remember?" Arthur replied as he got up and dusted his knees.

"Well _of course _I've got the most–"

"Good, then it's settled. You're buying."

Gilbert's mouth opened and closed for a bit, but no reply came out and the corporal had to settle for a snort instead. Arthur smirked at him before the sergeant turned his attention to Antonio, who had not bothered to hide his amusement with the corporal's predicament. "Tonio, have any luck with the radio?" asked Arthur.

Antonio shook his head. "Sorry. I still can't get anyone."

"Leave it behind then, it's just dead weight," Arthur ordered. "Come on, Antonio. First watch, you and me. Gilbert, Feli, you relieve us at zero one hundred. Try to enjoy those comfy sleeping bags of yours, it's probably your last chance to use them."

At the time, none of them could have known just how right Arthur was.

-x-x-

First watch had passed without any incidents.

When Gilbert and a sleepy-eyed Feliciano went to relieve Arthur and Antonio, there were no words exchanged, only Arthur's firm pat on the Italian's shoulder and Antonio's quick thumbs-up at both of them. Feliciano straightened a bit after that, obviously more awake, much to Gilbert's amusement.

The two took their positions and tried to make themselves as comfortable as possible – which was not very much. Gilbert kept still and noted his surroundings; sounds, shadows and all the little things, which if changed ever so slightly, would mean that someone was moving closer to their camp. He had woken up earlier before it was time to relieve the first watch and his eyes had already grown accustomed to the darkness, but Feliciano was still trying to adjust. It was obvious from the younger man's posture he was squinting.

"Just relax," Gilbert whispered, "if you try too hard, you'll make it harder on yourself. Just give your eyes some time to get used to the dark."

Feliciano nodded. "Ve, okay."

That quick reply sounded a little too gloomy for the usually cheerful Italian, Gilbert thought. "Don't worry Feli," Gilbert said softly, smirking as he patted the younger man on the shoulder, "I'll make sure we'll be all right."

The Italian nodded again, a little bit more enthusiastically this time. "Thanks, corporal."

The two men kept silent after that exchange. Feliciano occasionally rubbed his eyes or stifled a yawn, but he bravely soldiered on and stayed awake, one hand ready on his weapon. Gilbert was far more used to keeping watch, so he only allowed himself a quick roll of his shoulders or a massage at his neck every now and then, never taking his sights off his surroundings.

About three hours had passed in peace when Gilbert finally noticed something was different. Even at night, there were still faint sounds from nocturnal animals, or even the soft rustle of leaves with the occasional night breeze, but somehow in the past few minutes everything just seemed a little too... _loud._ He knew the night animals would hurry to their dens at the approaching light, but it was still too early for that.

Something was heading their way. He scanned the perimeter, straining to see, or even hear, the slightest movement or sound.

There.

A soft rustle, followed by another, in a pattern far too regular to be the simple rustling of tree leaves. It was as if the person – or thing? – drawing nearer towards them did not bother trying to disguise its approach.

Gilbert mentally swore. That meant it could not be one of the rival patrols. Unless of course, they were _really_ stupid.

"Feli," Gilbert hissed softly, nudging the Italian with his leg, "we're in trouble. Stay quiet."

The Italian started, but to his credit, managed to keep his mouth shut. He looked at the corporal, at the same time gripping tightly on his weapon. He nodded when Gilbert indicated the direction the sound was coming from.

Gilbert bent down and whispered into Feliciano's ear. "I'm going to circle around. When the firing starts, I want you to run straight back to camp, got it? I'll be right behind you."

Feliciano nodded, but gave Gilbert a worried look. As much as Gilbert wanted to give him some more reassurance, there was no time for that. He gave the Italian a gentle push and then silently crept away from his position.

At the time, Gilbert had no idea that Feliciano was actually worried for _him._

Once he judged he was in a far more suitable spot, the corporal scanned the area again through the sights of his SA80. Clinging to the hope that whoever – or whatever – was approaching the camp was indeed one of their intellectually-challenged rivals, he moved the selector to set his weapon on full automatic. If their oncoming enemy was a rival patrol, then they would get one _hell _of a surprise. If it was not a rival patrol – well, at least he could try and lead the enemy away before he rejoined his comrades.

"Come on, come on," he whispered softly to himself, "where are you..."

The rustling grew louder, and at the same time a rather odd humming-like sound matched the growing volume. Gilbert was puzzled, but kept scanning the perimeter through his weapon sights, then narrowed his eyes when he finally spotted movement.

A tall, bulky figure was moving in an odd, halting gait. Definitely not one of the rival patrol members. A civilian? No, Gilbert quickly dismissed that possibility, since no sound person would be out here; all squaddies were slightly insane by default. Whatever it was, it was approaching closer, making that odd humming sound as it moved. It did not seem to be carrying a weapon, so it could not have been whatever it was that came into contact with that patrol the other night... could it?

Screw it, Gilbert decided, he was firing blanks anyway. Might as well unload the whole magazine and give the rest some time to leg it. "Contact!" he yelled and fired a quick burst.

His opponent stood still, as if stunned, but quickly moved faster in his direction. No beeps, that meant no vest – so definitely not a rival squaddie – and fortunately for him, no return fire either. That meant he could try and lead it away.

Gilbert scrambled away from his position, at the same time firing a few more bursts as he ran. He did not even bother to aim properly, since it would be a futile gesture; he just needed to get that thing's attention so Feliciano could get to safety.

Wait, where was the Italian?

Much to Gilbert's horror, Feliciano had not budged from his earlier position and instead was simply standing there, firing uselessly at their opponent, which stopped and then started to head for the Italian.

"Feli you idiot," Gilbert hollered, "you're firing blanks! Run!"

But the Italian either did not hear him, or was simply too stunned or even too scared to move. So Feliciano simply stood there, trembling as he fired uselessly at the – _thing_ – that was now currently advancing towards the frightened man in that awkward, but rapid gait.

_"Feli!"_ Gilbert yelled as he ran towards them, at the same time firing several bursts in the hopes of getting that blasted thing's attention. It seemed to work for a moment, since the hulking figure halted its steps and turned slightly in his direction, but to Gilbert's dismay it simply resumed its path towards the Italian.

"Over here, you shit!" he shouted, then fired a few more short bursts in a final and desperate attempt to create a distraction. "Feli, _run!"_ he ordered one last time before he lunged at his taller opponent, fully intent on scoring a blow to the head with the butt of his rifle. He almost smirked in satisfaction when the weapon made contact with a loud _clang_ – wait, _clang?_ – but his eyes narrowed when his opponent barely even staggered from the impact of the blow. He struck another blow with his rifle butt, this time aiming for the chest area. That seemed more effective since the figure did stagger a step back this time, so he kept at it, hoping to buy enough time for Feli to recover his senses and run the fuck out of there.

Unfortunately for _him,_ the thing he was fighting was not quite keen on the idea, and it nearly wrenched his arm when it grabbed the rifle and jerked it out of his grip. Forced to let the weapon go, Gilbert then ducked from a wild swing and tried to dive and roll aside, but his opponent must have anticipated the move.

The last thing Gilbert remembered was the sensation of something cold and hard closing around his arm before he felt himself being slammed into a tree.

Then everything went black.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: **A de-anon from the LiveJournal kink meme.

**A Game of Soldiers: Chapter 8**

* * *

"Feli, _run!"_

Gilbert's last desperate shout finally broke Feliciano from his fear-induced trance, and with a loud gasp the young Italian turned and ran. Practically sobbing, he fled back in what he hoped was the direction of the camp, clinging tightly to his weapon.

He heard Gilbert yell something in German, but nothing more after that. A tiny part of him began to wonder what happened and if the corporal were okay. He was, right? Gilbert must have managed to take care of that – that _thing,_ whatever it was, or at the very least managed to get away safely.

He must be all right, Feliciano told himself. It's _Gilbert,_ of course he had to be all right. Because if he were not all right, Felicano was sure that Ludwig would strangle the Italian for leaving the corporal behind.

Feliciano kept running, throwing caution to the wind and ignoring the fact that he was making a racket as he moved. He was oblivious to the broken twigs and trampled undergrowth he left in his wake, and heard only the phrase he repeated under his breath like a mantra:

_Please be all right._

-x-x-

Arthur's eyes snapped open the moment he heard the first sounds of gunfire. He scrambled to his feet, hand automatically reaching for his rifle next to him. Antonio and Ludwig followed suit. Antonio was swearing softly in Spanish, while Ludwig in German.

"Come on lads," Arthur ordered, "let's move!"

Clinging to the faint hope that the exchange of fire was due to an encounter with a rival patrol, or just Feliciano being stupid and that there really was nothing to worry about, Arthur led the other two men scrambling in the direction of Gilbert and Feliciano's post.

The three men had not gone far when they heard the unmistakable sounds of someone fast approaching them. They barely had enough time to take cover before in a mad rush of gasping and panting and flailing arms, Feliciano flew into their midst. The panicked Italian would have ran past them if not for Ludwig, who barely managed to yank his belt to stop him, but his momentum brought both of them crashing to the ground.

Arthur was thankful that Feliciano at least had enough sense to have kept the safety on. An accidental round being fired would have given their position away.

"Feli! Feli!" Ludwig said as he dragged the Italian to his feet, shaking the other man's shoulders. "What happened? Where's Gilbert?"

"The corporal, he – he'd..." Feliciano gasped, "I'm sorry!"

Even though there was not much light, Arthur did not need to see to know that Ludwig had turned very pale at Feliciano's apology. The tall German stiffened and released his hold on his friend, and would have marched on ahead if Arthur had not stopped him.

"And where the hell do you think you're going?" Arthur said, grasping Ludwig firmly on one shoulder.

"But my brother, what if he's–" Ludwig could not finish his sentence, but Arthur knew what he meant anyway. The German tried to shrug Arthur's hand away, but the sergeant refused to let go.

Arthur certainly did not expect the outburst of German words from the usually calm and composed Ludwig. Ignoring the German's swearing – well, what else would it be? – Arthur shoved the taller man back and held him by the shoulders, pinning him to a nearby tree. No mean feat, considering how Ludwig was taller and bulkier than he was. "Now you listen to me," Arthur hissed. "You rushing ahead like an idiot is not going to help your brother. We don't even know if he's alive or dead," he continued, this time keeping his voice level, while Ludwig flinched at that unpleasant possibility, "so going after him blindly is just fucking stupid and won't make things easier for anyone." Arthur turned to Feliciano, who now had calmed down somewhat. "You hurt anywhere?" he asked.

The Italian gulped and shook his head. "Ve... no."

"Right, tell us what happened," the sergeant ordered, still not letting go of Ludwig.

"S-something came from the woods – the corporal told me to run, but I couldn't move..." Feliciano gulped. "Then he tried to take it down."

"And then?"

"I still couldn't move, not until he yelled at me again and told me to run for it. Then I did what he said." The Italian sniffed. "Ludwig! I'm so sorry! I left your brother behind! I-I..."

"Now's not the time, Feli," Antonio interrupted before the young man could start blubbering.

"This... _thing,_ was it armed?" Arthur asked.

Feliciano shook his head. "No, I'm quite sure it wasn't."

Even though Arthur could feel Ludwig relaxing slightly under his grip, he did not let go of the German. Not just yet. "Was it alone?" Whatever _it_ was.

Feliciano nodded. "Yeah. It's big! And it seemed to have problems walking. I mean, it was walking slowly, ve..."

Arthur felt a slight sense of relief. "That means they couldn't have gotten far," he said. Only then did he let go of Ludwig. And since Arthur had brothers of his own, he added for softly for Ludwig's ears alone, "Don't worry lad, we'll find that fuckwit of a brother of yours."

The German simply nodded in reply, but that was good enough for him.

-x-x-

"Got a plan, Sarge?" Antonio asked as they made their way through the woods.

"Yeah, I'm fucking making a brilliant one as we go along," Arthur replied truthfully.

It would not be too hard to come up a with a decent plan, especially with no live ammunition, no communications, his admittedly idiotic but experienced 2IC gone missing and quite probably taken captive by an unknown hostile, and having two greens – one of which was a stupid crybaby – with him.

No problem.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Sod it all.

-x-x-

His head hurt like hell.

It almost felt like that time his rather tipsy self accidentally spurted beer all over his little brother's face, and that somewhat inebriated little brother brought a very heavy fist down on his head.

Except that this time, he was sure that West had nothing to do with his current predicament, or else he would be waking up to the heavenly smell of pancakes and his brother fussing over him. He gingerly opened his eyes and slowly his vision focused; soon he found himself staring at a dirty brick wall.

Definitely not in his comfy bed with pancakes waiting, so history had chosen not to repeat itself.

"Shit," Gilbert muttered as he slowly drew himself up into a sitting position. Once he was sure that his head was not going to roll off his shoulders, he took a quick look around.

He was sitting in what seemed to be a small holding cell of sorts. A closed heavy metal door seemed to be the only exit, and there were no windows to speak of, or even furniture; he had been lying on a cold cement floor. His rifle had been taken away, or perhaps left behind – not that it was much use anyway, since it was only loaded with blanks – and so were the pouches on his beltkit. His combat knife was gone too; whoever had searched him had been thorough.

His shoulder was aching too. What happened to it? Oh yeah, he was slammed into a tree, no wonder it hurt. Shit, did Feli manage to get away? Hopefully he did, and the kid managed to alert the others.

"West must be going ballistic by now," he muttered to himself, then walked to the door. There was a slot at the door – for prisoner's meals, likely; Gilbert pushed the flap open and tried to see what was outside. He was fairly disappointed when all he saw was a blank wall.

"Hey!" he yelled, kicking the door several times, hoping that a guard would hear him. Even though it was unlikely that he would be released, he hoped to at least find out where he was, or just who exactly he was up against. He kept at it for about fifteen minutes, but no one came to check up on him.

Sighing, he slumped to the floor and leaned against the wall. That meant he would just have to wait.

Gilbert hated waiting.

-x-x-

There was enough light to see that empty casings were scattered all over the damp soil. Arthur knelt and picked up one of them to take a better look. It was from one of their SA80s; in this case, Gilbert's. And unlike at the other site he previously inspected, it seemed that only one weapon – or at least, one type of weapon – had been used. So Feliciano was right.

Too bad that was the one thing Arthur could be relieved about. His concern for the corporal grew when he saw the strange rectangular imprints from before could be seen on the ground, interlaced with Gilbert's own footprints.

"Came from that direction," Arthur said and pointed for Antonio's benefit, "and Gilbert circled around, then he ran straight here."

"A struggle?"

Arthur shrugged. "Footprints seem to say so. He tried to put up a fight, but it didn't turn out in his favour."

"At least there's no blood," Antonio offered. Trust the Spaniard to find a silver lining anywhere. Then something must have caught his eye, for he walked a few steps ahead and then bent down. "Sarge? Here's his rifle," he said, dragging the weapon out from under some fallen branches.

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise. Whatever Gilbert came up against, it must have been really strong. The SA80 was effectively warped and ruined beyond any repair. It was only good for scrap metal now. _Solves the problem of having to lug it around,_ Arthur absently thought as he examined the rifle. It took a few tries, but he managed to release the magazine and found that it was almost empty. Gilbert must have fired loads to warn the rest of them and to put off his attacker. Obviously the latter did not work out too well.

Arthur tucked the almost empty magazine in one of his pockets. He studied the ground again and frowned at the mess of prints near them, then the set of rectangular prints that led away from the area, and the unmistakable trail of flattened grass, disturbed undergrowth and drag marks on the damp soil. "Dragged Gilbert away with him," Arthur concluded, then shook his head. _Or with it_. He noted that the deep rectangular prints were widely spaced, but not evenly so. "Tracks don't make sense though. Like the bloody thing was wobbling about or something."

"Feliciano did say the thing had problems walking."

"That means they couldn't have gotten far. Come on."

Antonio signalled to Ludwig and Feliciano, who were on stag, to follow them.

The trail was much easier to follow now with the increasing morning light and Arthur led his lads after their missing corporal as fast he dared. Gilbert's noisy encounter may have attracted others – oh who was he kidding, the world and his wife must have heard all that gunfire – such as other patrols, or worse, even more of those things that left rectangular tracks. He hoped that the other patrols did not get _too_ curious and move into the area to investigate, instead of steering clear of it.

They must have followed the trail for two kilometres or so when their luck took a turn for the worse. One round of good fortune in return for three rounds of crap, that was how it went. The trail led them through the woods and then there's your fuck-all for you lot, thank you very much, a rocky area with barely any signs to determine where their quarry went. Both Arthur and Antonio tried to see if there were upturned rocks or pebbles that indicated their quarry's movements, but the task proved impossible with the surface.

"Too many bleedin' rocks all over the bleedin' place," Arthur swore under his breath. "Ludwig, you're with me," he said to the rest, "Antonio, you and Feli. Let's take a look around a bit. They can't have disappeared into thin air."

The Spaniard nodded and led the younger squaddie away, while Arthur and Ludwig went in the other direction.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Ludwig asked softly.

"Disturbed soil or gravel, rocks turned over. Dried mud. Bits of thread, clothing. Anything that doesn't fit in the terrain," Arthur explained as he scanned the ground, "since the trail just disappeared when we got to the rocks. They had to go somewhere."

Unfortunately for Arthur, he could not figure out just where that somewhere was.

-x-x-

"Ve..."

That little 've' sounded important, so Antonio ceased looking around and turned to his companion. "What is it, Feli?"

"I think I found something," the Italian said, then pointed to the ground with his rifle.

That 'something' turned out to be a small green button. Fortunately it was not just any button, it matched the ones on their fatigues.

"It must be Gilbert's," Antonio said.

Feliciano beamed. "Ve! That's wonderful!" he exclaimed, flapping his free arm.

"Shh! Not so loud!" Antonio hissed.

The Italian cringed. "Sorry," he whispered in apology. Not that it mattered anyway; he was loud enough to attract Arthur and Ludwig's attention, who immediately headed back in their direction.

"What is it?" the sergeant asked. When Antonio showed him the button Feliciano found, he nodded. "Good, we haven't lost them just yet."

"I think they went this way!" Feliciano said, somewhat elated that he had found clues to Gilbert's location and was eager to further contribute. He had gone ahead a little, hoping to find more signs that would lead to where the corporal had been taken.

"Okay, Feli," Arthur said, "I'll take point now. You just–"

"Ve, but I found something else! It's a wire, I think – and you can barely see–"

Arthur's eyes widened in alarm. "No! Feli, just stay right there and for fuck's sake don't–"

Feliciano continued to babble, not hearing the sergeant in his excitement, "I think you're supposed to pull on it or some–"

_"Don't!"_ yelled the others, and Antonio tried to run and stop the Italian, but it was too late.

"Ve?"

That confused-sounding syllable from Feliciano was the last thing Antonio heard before the ground opened up beneath him, and he felt himself falling.

-x-x-

In theory, they should have been silent, or at the very least, attempted to keep the noise to a minimum, in order not to alert any hostiles of their predicament and location.

In reality, the racket they were making was far more impressive than that of a flock – no, make that _two_ flocks – of schoolchildren left to fend for themselves, without any adult supervision.

For three solid hours.

In a chocolate factory.

The collective swearing of English, German and Spanish, plus the tearful babbling of Italian, was more than impressive and would not have sounded out of place in the lobby of the European Parliament, or at the Champions League victory celebrations right when the fighting had just started.

When Feliciano had cheerfully yanked on that tripwire, the first thought that crossed Arthur's horrified mind was, _oh fuck, we're going to die._

Actually that was a lie; that was the second thought that crossed his mind.

His initial thought was, _oh god, so much for collecting my army pension._

He had then closed his eyes, bracing himself for that loud explosion that would reduce them all to huge blotches of claret and messy gobbets of burnt flesh on the ground. Instead of the loud, messy noise he expected however, he only heard a loud, metallic sound before what must have been a _fucking_ huge trapdoor opened under his feet.

He had grasped around in panic as he fell, hoping to grab onto something, anything, to slow his fall, as ending up as another huge blotch of red on the ground, thanks to a sheer drop instead of a loud bang, was not exactly something he liked either.

Mercifully, they were all spared from plummeting to their deaths, as they hit the surface – a slope of sorts, for they crashed into each other in a confused heap of limbs, but were too stunned to hold on before they resumed their descent down the smooth, tilted surface. While their descent was at a speed much faster than Arthur was comfortable with, it was good enough for Feliciano, who was hysterically yammering about how he was thankful his life had been spared and that he would never miss service again, not for all the pasta in the world.

The trapdoor was closing rapidly, shutting them off from the light above. Arthur could barely see that they were sliding down some sort of huge tunnel. Again, he stretched out his hands and legs, trying to slow his descent. He looked down and saw that Antonio not only had the same idea, but the Spaniard was also trying to reach for Feliciano, who was blubbering and flapping about. He was not quite sure where Ludwig was, but judging from the shouts in German he was hearing, the man must be close by.

The opening above them closed, leaving them all in darkness. Arthur desperately reached out again in hopes of holding on to Antonio – or anybody for that matter – and for a moment he must have grazed the man's hands, as he could have sworn he heard Antonio shout something.

Arthur was not sure what happened next; all he knew was that suddenly his left side _hurt,_ while his breath was literally knocked out of him. The sergeant gasped as he slid down even faster, desperately trying to get his lungs to work again after that disorienting – and _painful!_ – occasion of smacking himself into that sharp turn.

He could have feel himself slowing down; the incline was no longer as sharp. As he continued to descend, he could not help wondering if his mother was right about his career choice.

Maybe he should have joined the Royal Navy instead.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: **A de-anon from the LiveJournal kink meme.

* * *

**A Game of Soldiers: Chapter 9**

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* * *

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Antonio had always prided himself for being a rather cheerful man. He could almost always find something to smile about, no matter how disheartening the situation can be. Shirt stolen from his clothesline? Never mind, never liked that shirt much in the first place. His family in such a huge debt that they could not afford to send him to university after he finished school? No problem, he was not all that interested in books anyway, and joining the military sounded much more exciting.

At the moment however, he was rather hard-pressed to find something to smile about.

And he meant that literally, for he was currently being crushed by the weight of both Feliciano and Ludwig, who were on top of him.

"Mrgggh," he managed to croak out with what little breath he had in his lungs. Unfortunately for him, no one heard.

"Ve! _Veeeee,_ what happened? Are we dead? Ludwig? Sergeant? _Anybody? _Aaaah! Help! Someone's trying to take me prisoner! Let me go!"

"Feliciano, calm down and stop flailing your arms, that's me you're hitting."

"Ludwig! Ve, I'm so glad it's you! I can't see anything, it's so dark! Wait, where's Sarge? And Antonio?"

With the very last of his oxygen-deprived strength, Antonio weakly patted on the warm bulk currently straddling his back.

"Ve! Something just groped me! Ludwig, did you just grope me?"

There was a rather odd choking sort of noise before Ludwig thundered, "What do you mean - _of course_ I didn't!"

That feeble pat cost him the last of his oxygen, Antonio thought. Oh well, he decided as he started to black out, at least he was going to die in the company of his friends-

"Feli! Get up!"

"Ve?"

Fortunately for Antonio, Ludwig did not bother to give the confused Italian an explanation, but instead promptly yanked him on his feet and off the suffocating Spaniard. Antonio gasped several heavy lungfuls before the other two men flipped him over so he was on his back. Ludwig helped him to sit up and it took a few more of those huge breaths before he felt confident that he was not going to die.

He looked up to find both Ludwig and Feliciano looking at him. "Ve! I'm sorry!" Feliciano half-sobbed, "I didn't mean to squash you!"

"It's okay," Antonio said. His voice even sounded somewhat normal; he had been expecting a squeaky tone like in those kids' cartoons Gilbert watched when the corporal thought no one was looking. Then he realised that the two younger men were not only looking at him in concern, but also something else.

It took a few blinks before he figured it out. It was just the three of them.

Oh.

He blinked again.

Right.

That meant that he was the most experienced person currently around. Gilbert was probably detained somewhere here – wherever _here_ was – while Arthur must have gotten separated somehow, and hopefully the man was not being squashed, whether by a friendly or a hostile.

Both Ludwig and Feliciano continued to look at him expectantly. Antonio took another deep breath. Yes, he should remain calm, no point in making the two greens panic, and so he did the first thing that came across his mind.

He smiled.

-x-x-

Arthur slowly opened his eyes. It took a while for his vision to adjust to the dim light, but soon he could see that he was lying on a cement floor, with nothing around him except for some battered-looking crates and wooden boxes. Oh, and that fuckingly steep metal ramp. Who was the fucking genius who thought of that?

He gingerly pushed himself up and after a few moments of contemplation, decided that it was worth the risk to use the mini flashlight he kept in one of his pockets. He switched it on and used it to take another good look around, hoping to find his weapon or the rest of the lads. No luck with those, but he did spot what seemed to be a door not too far away. Might as well leave through there before someone – or something – came to check out the huge racket he must have made when he got here.

Wondering for the second time that day why he did not listen to Mummy and join the Royal Navy – sod it, he could have been a Royal Marine, maybe even one of them smug bastards with a green beret and he was sure that _they_ never fell into bloody huge trapdoors in the middle of some forest's arse – Arthur made his way to the door. He leaned against the wall, turned his flashlight off and tucked it back in his pocket. Once his vision had adjusted again, he tested the door and was relieved to find that it was not locked.

_All right, Sergeant Arthur Kirkland. Time to get yourself sorted. Let's find the lads and get out of here._

Nothing too difficult for someone like him now, was it? And of course Arthur fancied himself as a tough character; he practically chewed nails and spit napalm, as opposed to that frog Francis, who dined on snails and used lip balm.

He opened the door just a little bit and peered through the crack. Nothing.

Arthur then as quietly and as quickly as he dared, crept out the door and down the dim hallway with a sole working light bulb. He found it rather strange, but nevertheless was thankful that no one had come to investigate all the commotion. Did it mean that there was no one here?

Then he heard it; the soft, but unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. He reached for his knife and cursed silently when he realised that it was probably too late to go back to that door. Might as well try to take out whoever that was coming his way. Arthur kept going, his eyes fixed on the turn at the end of the corridor, at the same time instinctively trying to match his own steps to the cadence of the other man, hoping that would hide his presence.

Taking slow, silent and measured breaths, he stayed still once he was near the turn, careful to keep himself in the dark so his shadow would not warn the oncoming person. Just a little bit more...

He rushed in a low crouch but his knife was aimed in a high upward stroke, going for the neck artery, but his opponent somehow managed to deflect that attempt – fuck, bastard has a knife of his own – and then he tried to stab at the other man's weapons hand. His opponent had other ideas and dodged, then quickly threw a punch that landed on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur staggered backward, but was not stunned enough not to avoid the knife-thrust aimed at his gut. He swerved aside and countered with a kick to the midriff, and he heard his opponent curse-

Arthur's eyes widened. He knew that voice... didn't he?

"Fuckin' hell!" he blurted, then barely brought his knife up in time to parry a strike, then his free hand to deflect a punch aimed at his jaw.

Anticipating a counter-attack, Arthur's opponent had rolled away. Finding none, he stood up.

The two men then just stood there in the dimly-lit corridor, still in their combat stances. The silence was not awkward; it was just fucking stupid. Dangerous, but still fucking stupid.

"Who are you?" Arthur spat. Sure, that voice had sounded familiar, but _still._

The other man stiffened. _"Rosbif?"_

Arthur blinked at the other man when he had stepped into better light.

Maybe he should have gone ahead and stabbed the bastard.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here, frog?"

"Arthur?" Francis said as the incredulous look on his face was replaced by one of relief. The Frenchman relaxed slightly and sheathed his combat knife.

Arthur did straighten himself, but he still kept his knife in hand. "How did you get here? And where the fuck are we?"

"Last question first. Actually, I haven't the slightest idea what this place is. What I _do_ know about it is that I've been wandering through these corridors for hours and you're the first living person I've come across."

_Living person?_

Francis would have to be one hell of spectacular idiot to miss how Arthur stiffened at his statement. The Frenchman quickly added, "I didn't see anyone else down here, alive or dead. We need to get moving. And could you put that knife away?"

Arthur did. "How did you get here?" he repeated as he followed Francis down the hallway.

"Our patrol ran into something in the woods. First we thought it was just one of the other patrols, so we gave it a shooting down – until we realised that we were getting live rounds in return fire. I told the rest to run straight for our next planned camp site and stayed a little behind for rearguard action to give them some cover and a little bit more time."

Arthur nodded. So Francis' patrol _was_ the one he and his lads heard that night.

"I kept our pursuer occupied – a little hard to do when you only have blanks, _non? _– but I managed. Then I ran to rejoin the group and..." Francis coughed and made some sort of nonsense gesture with his hands.

"Let me guess," Arthur said with a long-suffering sigh, "you fell through a bloody huge trapdoor?"

Francis nodded and coughed again, this time in embarrassment.

As much as Arthur really wanted to make fun of the frog for that, _he _fell through a trapdoor too. And as much as he hated to admit it, the current situation and the well-being of his men took precedence over his distaste of the Frenchman. So instead of a verbal jab, he asked, "Your lads made it safely?"

"I believe so. Told them to get word out that the exercise area was compromised, and there was hostile presence," Francis said, "unless your patrol managed to get on the radio to do that?"

Arthur shook his head. "No, we couldn't raise anyone. Antonio says there's a possibility of being jammed and now I'm starting to believe that we were." He scowled, then continued, "I'm going to beat the idiots who gave this place a clean go for an exercise into one big bloody pulp when I get back."

Francis snickered. "I hope you don't mind some company."

"Wait. The trapdoor you came in... was it the one down that way?" Arthur asked.

"No, why?"

"Beilschmidt's gone and I think whatever that was firing at us took him prisoner. That's what got us here in the first place; we were following his trail. The rest of my lads got separated when we fell through that trapdoor and we need to find them. Maybe they've ended up where you landed. We should head there first."

"And you want me to lead the way." Seeing Arthur nod, Francis raised an eyebrow. "An Englishman willingly following a Frenchman into battle? This _is _history."

"Shut it and move, sunshine."

-x-x-

Gilbert was starting to worry.

It had been hours but no one had come to get him, interrogate him, feed him or even to kick him around just for a few laughs. Were his captors planning on just leaving him here so he could starve to death?

He shook his head and shoved that disturbing thought somewhere else. That was probably what his captors wanted him to feel; break him first, so he would be easier for questioning. Well, that was one thing they were _not_ going to get from him, because he was the most kick-ass corporal in CBAB – oh, _fuck_ that stupid acronym and _fuck _whoever thought it up – and he would find a way out of this mess somehow.

The lone fluorescent bulb in the cell flickered for a little bit, making a soft buzzing noise. Gilbert noticed that it had been doing that for a couple of times now. It reminded him of those movies he liked to watch when he was off-duty, except that in his case there was no monster or crazed killer popping into view after the lights were done with the creepy flickering routine.

Gilbert stood up and went to the door so he could give it a strong kick, needing an outlet to relieve his frustration. Feeling slightly better, he crouched and flipped the slot at the door open. Again, he saw nothing but a blank wall on the other side.

Shouting for someone to come get him would probably be pointless and he was not really up to it anyway; his throat was parched. He put his hands out of the slot, grasped the bit of the door under his hands and shook hard. The heavy door rattled noisily, but refused to open.

The lights in his cell and in the hallway flickered again, but this time the flickering lasted longer than a few seconds. And unlike in those previous occasions, this time everything went dark.

And much to Gilbert's surprise, he heard a soft metallic noise as he felt the door vibrate for a second. His eyes widened and he gave the door a hearty shove, hoping that what he thought just happened, had actually happened.

The door swung open.

Gilbert surmised that the door's locking mechanism was remotely controlled from a central station and that the electrical problem and outage must have somehow activated the door's release bar, or maybe there was some sort of emergency and the automatic release was activated.

But who really cares about the technicalities anyway? It was time to make his escape.

The corporal wondered briefly whether if there were others who had shared his fate, but judging from the lack of noise in the hallways, he must have been the only prisoner there. He simply picked a direction and went as fast as he dared down the dark corridor. The emergency lighting had not kicked in, or perhaps there was no emergency lighting in the first place, so he was forced to feel the walls with his hands, hoping to find a door.

He also hoped that he would not run into any more of those freaks that knocked him out. What the hell was that thing anyway? It sort of moved like a man, but there was no way a human being could stand up to the beating Gilbert gave with the butt of his rifle. And there was that stupid metallic clang... someone wearing some sort of power suit, maybe?

Shit. This was starting to sound like a sci-fi movie, or even a video game. No, at least in video games, the player character usually started out with some sort of weapon, even though it was a beat-up BB gun or something. At the moment, he had none.

Gilbert froze when he thought he heard something. Yes, there it was, a soft humming-like sound, just like that time when he and Feli – god, he hoped the pasta-loving kid managed to get away – encountered that _thing._ He resisted the urge to let out a curse or two and instead desperately felt around for a door, an alcove, hell – a stupid box would do, _anything_ to hide in from whatever was approaching because he did not want to be shoved into a cell again.

A few moments of frantic wall-groping and he found what felt like a door handle; not waiting any longer since that humming sound _and_ loud, awkward footsteps were getting closer and closer, he pushed down on the handle, stepped through the open space and shut the door. He kept one firm grip on the handle and willed for his breathing to calm down.

The humming and the mismatched footsteps was louder now and he knew that whatever that thing was, it had just gone past his hiding place. He waited for a while until all the noise had faded away, then opened the door slightly so he could take a peek outside.

The corridor was still dark so there was nothing to see, but the footsteps still echoed in the dark emptiness. The thing must be headed for the cells to check up on its prisoner, Gilbert thought. Well, this _ex-prisoner_ was not going to stick around, he decided; as soon as he was certain his captor was no longer in sight, he would take off in the other direction.

Then the emergency lighting finally kicked in, and the corridor was bathed in faint red light. Gilbert's eyes widened in surprise and he only managed to stop himself from uttering a curse, or even a gasp, by covering his mouth.

He really needed to get out of here now and as soon as the footsteps and echoes died down, he went out the door and ran for it.

The figure he had seen walking down the hallway and thankfully in the other direction?

It was not human.

* * *

**Note: **Arthur's comment about the people in green berets refers to the Royal Marine Commandos.


End file.
